Falling Apart
by merid1AN
Summary: Sequel to Back to Normal.


It's freezing. The night is so cold one could almost hear the air whining in protest. Almost.  
  
Instead there is the sound of my boots crunching on the snow, my footsteps heavy. I feel kind of tired from our little encounter this evening, my love. My head is still spinning and my blood is humming with excitement. I didn't expect you to stand up to me, let alone finish our pleasant conversation so abruptly, just when it started getting even more pleasant.  
  
And that ridiculous demand of yours. I let out a small laugh. Only a woman could come up with such a thing to do.  
  
Where the hell am I supposed to get cookies at three o'clock in the morning?  
  
Did I just say cookies? Why forgive me, not just any cookies! Your favourite chocolate cookies. Dark chocolate, raisins, rum flavour.  
  
It was going well, wasn't it? We presented our abilities to each other, kind of showed our open - though not necessarily empty - hands to each other, we both drew blood, and then we began ... hmmm... negotiating. Why did you have to send me out here into the cold? I bet you knew I'd go. I had no other choice and you knew it!  
  
But why? Did you have to show me again where my place was, like when you slapped me in the face? Did you want me to accomplish a dangerous task to prove myself? Or to prove you weren't that easy?  
  
Or was it just an excuse to gain some time to prepare yourself for whatever is to come, for you suddenly leapt towards the bathroom when you thought I had gone?  
  
So now I wander through the city, at three o'clock in the morning, alone and freezing, looking for some damn cookies.  
  
I must be out of my mind.  
  
There it is at last. Your favourite gas station.  
  
The man behind the counter looks at me as if I'm an idiot. Or is it just my imagination, powered by excitement and the lack of sleep.  
  
I frown. When was it the last time I had a night of peaceful slumber? Seems hard to remember now...Strange. Why can't I focus?  
  
The man behind the counter gives me a lopsided grin and hands me the cookies. I hand him the money and turn to leave the gas station. Something makes me look over my shoulder and I can see that he's standing there, his eyes boring holes in my back from under the brim of his blue baseball cap.  
  
Strangely hard to focus now...  
  
Where was I?  
  
I look down at the pack of cookies in my hand. Ah, yes. Go fetch the cookies, Nottingham.  
  
There's no light in your window. No, wait, there is, but it's dim. And it flickers. Hmm, I see. You want to go romantic.  
  
I climb up your fire escape mainly because it's something you'd expect me to do. I'm almost there when I suddenly slip. I try to grasp something, anything, but I can't. I cannot regain my balance, so I land on my back and the night seems a thousand stars richer for a moment.  
  
What the hell was that? 'Getting old and rusty, Nottingham?' I can almost hear you say with that arched eyebrow of yours.  
  
I lay there for a moment and sort all the possible reasons in my head. Lack of sleep – possible, low temperature – not likely, you as a distraction – more likely, but still...  
  
And then I realize it. The feeling comes out of nowhere and engulfs me whole in a split second. I can feel a wave of nausea and it's getting hard to breathe. I don't know why but the face of the man from the gas station comes to my mind, his steel eyes scrutinizing me, his smile... sad.  
  
Something bad is about to happen. Something really bad.  
  
And then it goes away just as quickly as it came. I'm able to stand up now, so I do, my movements still a bit shaky though. I quickly gather myself and climb up the remaining stairs of the fire escape two at once, then peer into your loft. I grin. I was right. A small candle sits on your kitchen table, the room bathed in its dim yellow light.  
  
I start opening the window, but my fingers are suddenly so cold I can barely move them. What the hell is happening to me? I begin to suspect that there is something that is trying not to let me inside.  
  
What a ridiculous thought!  
  
The window finally gives out and I angrily lift it up and slip into your apartment. I look around, but you're nowhere in sight. So I cross the room, hang my coat by the door and head for the couch.  
  
And that's when I notice you, standing there in the bathroom door. I stop and take a good look at you. You changed into a black jeans and a fluffy white sweater. You're barefoot. And there is definitely something different about your face. And that odd gleam in your eyes...  
  
It would make me laugh, a woman doing a make-up in the middle of the night, were it not for a few little details to the situation; the woman is you and it's obvious you did that for me. So I smile instead and wave the pack of cookies in the air.  
  
"Care to join me?" I ask with the most innocent smile I can manage.  
  
There is something about your eyes. They're getting darker. I wonder whether it is anger or a promise of things to come. You point towards the kitchen. "I'd like some tea first."  
  
Yes, I heard it correctly. You said 'first'. I smile inwardly, trying to predict what the next task will be.  
  
I turn towards the kitchen, throwing the cookies in your direction. You catch them swiftly and immediately rip the pack in two, adding over your shoulder: "Hurry up there, Nottingham."  
  
I put the kettle on and watch you settle on the couch, biting hungrily into the first cookie. My hands are trembling. I don't know if it is fear or excitement, perhaps a bit of both.  
  
I begin to wonder when exactly did you become so familiar with me. You're definitely a different Sara than you used to be. You look so... tired, that's it. As if you are carrying the world's weight on your shoulders. And you also look as if you're in desperate need of someone to help you carry that load.  
  
Isn't it convenient I am around?  
  
It won't be long now, I think, as I watch you lick the crumbs off of your lips. It won't be long now at all. We both know it. Then why delay it with that tea-and-cookies ritual? Especially at four in the morning...  
  
I turn away from the sight of you and lean against the counter. You have glass shelves and the glass is invitingly cold. I touch it with my forehead in order to calm down and silence the constant humming in my brain. The fever is eating me alive now, but I must not succumb to it. I must go slowly...  
  
What the hell am I doing? The cookies were just an excuse, perhaps you didn't even want me to get them, perhaps you wanted me to stay with you even then, and I went away like a fool and left you alone...  
  
Down, Ian, damn it! She wants it slow, she wants it tender, hence the candle and the outfit. Don't you dare ruin this with your immature inexperienced hungers!  
  
But the point is she wants it. And she wants it now. Tonight. The sooner the better. She said hurry up, didn't she? Hm?  
  
Oh shut up, you poor sick womanless devil!  
  
I close my eyes and sigh. I just told my own self to shut up. I'm definitely mad.  
  
Your small hand on my shoulder startles me. I quickly spin around just to have the aforementioned hand sliding onto the back of my neck, pulling my head towards you, bending me to your lips.  
  
"Sorry, I couldn't wait any longer for that damn tea." You mutter and I feel your sweet chocolate cookie lips with rum flavour touch mine, dry and rough from both the frost and the fever.  
  
The hum in my head turns into a roar and all the sad and sorry remains of control I had managed to keep up until now are gone. The will of my body takes over. I can only watch my actions from a distance, as if I am detached somehow. And I can do absolutely nothing to stop it.  
  
So I watch as my hands grasp your hips and my arms lift you up to turn us both around so you can sit on the counter. I watch my lips biting into yours, my trembling hands fighting with the buttons of your jeans. You gasp, surprised by the sudden hurry, but you do nothing to slow it down. Instead you start unbuttoning my pants, tentatively at first, but then more furiously. My arms lift you up again and the tight black fabric of your jeans hits the floor, leaving your thighs naked and accessible. And by the time you're able to sit comfortably again I feel my body shuddering suddenly under the touch of your warm hand.  
  
I'm a tool now, submissive and directable. My forehead pressed tightly against yours, I can hear a strange sound escaping my mouth as you sharply pull my hips towards you and guide me inside.  
  
You shouldn't be doing this. Not with me. And God not like this!  
  
But oh, forgive me, because I can not stop it. I can feel tears stinging my eyes as you rock me back and forth, back and forth, inviting me to start moving by myself. So I comply, and you relax, tilt your head back, close your eyes, trusting me completely. I grasp the edge of the counter to brace myself, one hand holding you, pulling you, possessing you, using you, forward, forward, again, again, again...  
  
The kettle starts whistling.  
  
You let out a small laugh and something switches inside me. The lock on the cage holding the beast within me shatters to pieces and I bury my face in your hair and increase the tempo, my nails digging into your skin.  
  
The whine of the kettle grows louder and stings my ears painfully but I have already switched off all my receptors to any other stimuli but you. There's nothing that can stop the race now.  
  
I think I heard you whisper 'Let go' and I laugh inwardly. Like you have any control now, hah! Like you could do anything to stop me, to... stop... this...  
  
I can feel all my muscles tensing and I cling to you desperately, fighting with myself not to crush your fragile bones with the eruption of my energy. Then everything goes black for a moment.  
  
I think I was flying for a while. But then I had to land. Heavily.  
  
What have I done.  
  
I can feel your hand stroking my hair as I emerge from the momentary bliss I've just visited. The warmth of your hand drives away that horrible feeling that's just awakened somewhere in the back of my mind.  
  
The eyes of that man...  
  
Something very bad...  
  
You managed to reach the stove and the kettle is silent now, steaming. Just like we both are.  
  
"How are you feeling?" You ask quietly.  
  
No words come to mind. "Fine. You?"  
  
"Well... fine. I think."  
  
I laugh. "You think? You're not sure?"  
  
You smile at the words but you decide to play along. So you whisper:  
  
"After what I witnessed? After these..." You touch my cheek with your finger and a small drop of liquid - a tear, my tear - appears on your fingertip. "...on your face..."  
  
I turn away a bit too sharply and bend to pick up your jeans. Then I look at you and it suddenly hits me.  
  
You're still sitting there, steamy and beautiful, eyes partly closed, lips trembling.  
  
Waiting.  
  
So there's nothing I can do but follow these damned words that slip into my mind and refuse to lessen their grip on my throat. I smile slowly, seductively – I think – and I whisper:  
  
"Guess I should even the score..." 


End file.
